A day is 24 hours, a week is seven days, but you know how they can seem longer. That’s how last week seemed, longer than it should have been. One of those weeks. Car trouble, tooth trouble, computer trouble; lots of stories and deadlines at the newspaper.

So it was a relief to be home Friday afternoon. I made a couple of bone-cold, bone-dry martinis (with twists), and we sat out on the back screened porch, finishing the New York Times, sipping those utterly transparent, heady concoctions and snacking on some Copper River sockeye salmon I had smoked over hickory wood Thursday night. I’ll confess that when we tried the salmon Thursday at dinner, I thought it was too smoky, but Friday afternoon, nibbled on a sesame flat-bread cracker, it seemed just right. Everything was very pleasant, with the dogs gamboling about, and the cats snoozing in the sun, and birds batting each other off the bird feeder, competitive little buggers.

We did that for about an hour, and LL said, “Well, that’s it, let’s go watch a movie.”

Two for the Road (1967), with Audrey Hepburn and Albert Finney had arrived from Netflix, so I cranked up the DVD player and we all gathered round to watch. It’s a pretty good movie. Hepburn is radiant and funny (and very well-dressed in cool and outrageous late ’60s haute couture), though weighed down with eyeliner and fake eyelashes, and I could do without one more peppy-sobby Henry Mancini score. Albert Finney is actually truculent and arrogant, but his character is supposed to be rather asshole-ish, but somehow lovable as far as Hepburn is concerned. The screenplay, by British writer Frederick Raphael, is sparkling and snappy and witty.

About two-thirds the way through the movie, LL said, “You know what I would like? I’d like some toast with olive oil and a glass of red wine.”

So we stopped the movie and we all trooped into the kitchen — the dogs muttering darkly, “So what the hell’s going on?” — and made some toast and drizzled it with olive oil. I went to look through the platoons of red wines standing at out beck, and saw a bottle of Caymus Special Selection Cabernet Sauvignon 2004 — still holding the price at $136, bless their hearts — and I thought, “Oh, well, jeeze, why not? It’s been a long week. We deserve it.”

So I opened the bottle and poured us each a glassful and we went back and watched the rest of the movie and ate our toast with olive oil and drank our Caymus Special Selection Cabernet Sauvignon 2004, which was fabulous, like drinking the whole history and geography and geology of the Napa Valley yet also wonderfully, monumentally flavorful.

You wanna hear decadent? We’re in the midst (bless Netflix) of a Nicole Kidman film festival, trying to watch everything in order. So far we’ve done “Dead Calm,” “Malice,” “To Die For” (her early apotheosis) and “Billy Bathgate” (not bad). We’ll take a break for a few weeks and then forge ahead.

Fabulous tasting note! But as a female, allow me to debate Terry in saying this movie is a female equivalent to a Kevin Costner series. If I had to watch Kevin Coster for longer than 10 minutes, I’m afraid my wine wouldn’t taste nearly as delicious as Fredric’s did. For a wine like this, I might have to go with a movie like “Good Will Hunting” or “The Dead Poet Society”.